


Sleep Before Suffering

by TheWitchBoy



Series: TimKon: Young Justice Universe [2]
Category: Teen Titans - All Media Types, Young Justice - All Media Types
Genre: (they don't have much screentime), Anxiety and Depression Medications, Canon Compliant - Young Justice, Clark Kent is Trying to be a Good Dad, Conner deserves better, Conner is lowkey mom friending (still), Conner's Tee Shirt, Dick Being a Good Brother, Fluffy, Gen, Jonathan Kent exists in the universe somewhere, M/M, Peripheral Bluepulse, Slice of Life, Team Leader Nightwing, Tim Drake is Robin, Tim deserves better, Tim in Hand Me Downs, Tim is lowkey badass, flubbed timelines (maybe), fluff and friendship, mentions of anxiety and depression, minor profanity, sleepover, training exercise, young justice invasion - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-17
Updated: 2017-06-17
Packaged: 2018-11-15 02:33:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,329
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11221464
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheWitchBoy/pseuds/TheWitchBoy
Summary: When Tim woke up, the clock next to the bed read 4:13am. And his pillow was breathing in and out, in and out in a comforting, consistent rhythm. Tim blinked at the clock for several moments, trying to figure out why the sense of Wrong was consuming him, through the sleepy fog.





	Sleep Before Suffering

**Author's Note:**

> I realized while writing this that, as long as I don't rewatch Season 02, I'm probably going to end up flubbing timelines. Hah.
> 
> If I had a point when I started writing it, the point slowly devolved into "Saturday morning training at Mount Justice ft. Conner and Tim" and "Dick is a Good/Engaged Big Brother."

When Tim woke up, the clock next to the bed read 4:13am. And his pillow was breathing in and out, in and out in a comforting, consistent rhythm. Tim blinked at the clock for several moments, trying to figure out why the sense of Wrong was consuming him, through the sleepy fog.

For one, 4:13am was the butt end of patrol time. That was when he’d be sneaking in his bedroom window, stashing his costume between the mattress and the bedframe, and then curling up under his covers.

And he wasn’t even wrapped in the bedcovers, come to think of it – usually he woke up as a Tim Burrito, unless he’d kicked all the covers to the floor. The covers were under him, flat and mostly undisturbed, despite his occupation of the bed. Which was much larger than it should have been. With more of a dip, at his head, which was kind of weird? His head didn’t weigh that much. Did his pillow?

For another thing, the 4:13 blinked back at him in a calming, serene blue against a transparent or holographic background. Tim’s clock was usually a bit boxier, and had red numbers against a black background. It wasn’t a new clock, by any means. It was probably his parents’ old clock, which would have existed circa late 90s through early 2000s. Not a very pretty thing. But it worked, and that was what mattered.

And then there was the breathing pillow that dipped the bed under Tim’s head. Sort of.

It was a thick pillow, more solid than squishy, that pushed the bed down until Tim’s shoulder only just brushed the bed beside it, from its place next to the pillow. Tim’s head didn’t experience any o the dip, though, because the mostly-flat surface of the pillow kept his head at about the same level, fluctuating for each intake and outtake of breath.

Tim blinked slowly, sitting up to peer a bit more closely at the clock.

Something cold and light fell from his face and into his lap. Whoa, okay, Tim didn’t appreciate how much leg his pajamas of the night left to the open air. Especially since the air was open, in the first place. He wouldn’t have minded as much if he were a Tim Burrito.

He picked up the object, feeling it fold onto itself a bit, in his palm. Glasses. Okay. Tim occasionally wore glasses, thanks to barely imperfect vision, but not glasses this round or large.

He glanced at his pillow, which shifted behind him and intook a larger breath. Intook? That wasn’t actually a… whatever. The pillow exhaled and Tim ascertained, in the dim light, that the pillow was a person. A person about head and shoulders bigger than Tim, perhaps more. Solid, too, and taking up about twice as much of the bed as Tim had been, if not more.

That was another thing. Tim’s bed was a full sized thing, just bigger than twin and smaller than queen. This bed was bigger than Tim’s, and actually more comfortable. Maybe because it was 4am and Tim had no recollection of patrol.

Pieces started to snap together in Tim’s mind.

He’d missed patrol. He hadn’t gone home. That meant he was either at the Manor – fat chance – or still at the Mountain. The snoozing, person-shaped pillow wasn’t in a Dick shape, and while it was perhaps as solid as Bruce, it wasn’t _quite_ as tall or broad.  Bit less, really.

“Oh,” Tim mused. He yawned, rubbing at his eye. More of the previous day came back to him. Hunchback of Notre Dame, muggy weather, Artemis’ shorts. Okay, so, the bits and pieces were more confusing than the alien surroundings.

Alien. Was that ironic?

Wait, yes. Conner. It was Conner’s room, which definitely made ‘alien surroundings’ ironic, but which also rendered ‘alien surroundings’ moot, since Tim knew where he was, then. Tim yawned again, and put the sunglasses on (back on), which turned the clock numbers a bit purpley, under the ridiculous 90s reject red lenses of the sunglasses.

Dick – uh, Nightwing – had clearly left Tim behind, though whether or not that had been on purpose was up for debate.

It was probably on purpose. Dick wasn’t a soccer mom accidentally leaving their child at the supermarket. He was a doting, paranoid older brother that had already lost a sibling once and would never, ever allow it to happen again. Not even in the far less catastrophic case of forgetting Tim at the Mountain.

Conner stirred and shifted a bit, turning his body towards the source of heat sitting on his bed. That being Tim, of course.

Tim blinked down at him, then glanced over at the laptop, precariously perched on the edge of the bed, the pillow that had just about abandoned the bed from its place beside the laptop, and the mostly eaten pizza off to the side, perched on Conner’s desk, conspicuously parked on top of what was either a school essay or unfinished Team reports/evaluations.

Tim reached over Conner and picked up the laptop, his ribs brushing Conner’s side on exhale, and closed the lid. The laptop found its way to the side table, next to the clock, as Tim silently regarded the room. It was more of a wreck than he would have expected, given what he’d heard of Conner’s lack of personality. But then, Conner himself had mentioned gaining personality over the years. Even Conner was aware of his initial lack of personality.

Most of the mess, though, was wrappers from snacks, an overflowing under-desk garbage can, and laundry both clean and dirty escaping their respective hamper and baskets. Clearly Conner had something against his dresser. Probably.

Tim wasn’t fazed by the state of the room, though. His own room (at home, that is) was in a much worse state, probably. Dishes, laundry, trash, unopened video games that he would have been obsessed with if he weren’t spending all his time Robin’ing, magazines he forgot he had subscriptions to, books, homework, school clothes he didn’t care for, civvies he probably should care for, movies, Batman action figures that had found their ways into odd places, and – of course – his cameras and the odd tubes of film. Photos were, probably, the only thing that didn’t end up on the floor or otherwise in the mess. Many of them were too precious or sentimental to treat like that.

But yeah, there was no reason to balk at moderate messiness when Tim’s own room turned into a stye the moment he turned his back.

Tim turned back to Conner, who’d fallen asleep in his cargo pants and – geez – his boots. And the fingerless gloves he’d recently started wearing. It didn’t look very comfortable. But then again, Conner was the unofficial (right?) Boy of Steel. The discomfort of his accidental nightclothes might not have even computed for him.

Tim took another look at the clock (4:21am), then awkwardly lay himself back down in Conner’s bed, this time on his back with his gaze set on the ceiling. He couldn’t help but smile, though, because it looked like someone had put glow-in-the-dark stars up there. He wondered if it had been Conner, himself.

Tim yawned into his hand, voiceless and watery, and turned onto his side. He huffed a little, when the side of his sunglasses came in contact with the quilt, then curled in on himself a bit.

Never mind that he was facing Conner, now.

Never mind that his nose was less than an inch from Conner’s gently rising and falling chest.

Never mind that Conner shifted and put an arm over Tim.

Tim let himself fall asleep, even though he’d missed patrol and wasn’t home and would probably wake up to a lot of awkwardness and regrets. Number one among the awkwardness and regrets would probably be that Tim hadn’t just gotten up and made his way back to his own room to spend the rest of the night. Or even zeta’d back to Gotham.

\--

Training with Canary wasn’t as big a deal, the larger the Team got. It was still important, but it was also more and more likely that people would have one-on-one training scheduled with any one of the JL mentors, no longer limited to Black Canary. But then, once in a blue moon, Canary would schedule a mandatory Team training session. Granted, not everyone in the Team was mandated to be there (that would probably be a fire hazard, having all the official Team members in one room), but there would be two or three sessions, of which one of them would be a mandated training session for any given Team member.

Conner had drawn the short straw, that month, and received mandated 7:00am training with Black Canary. M’Gann, as was the usual, lately, had been assigned to a separate session. There was no point in mixing bad blood with training.

Sometimes, Bats drew the best lot of all (theoretically) and didn’t have to go to any training session, mandated or no. Other times, Conner had noticed (for example) Nightwing at each of the day’s three separate training sessions, an active participant _and_ mentor.

Anyway, Conner woke to a 6:30 alarm, and reaching over to shut it up with a jab to the snooze button was more difficult than he was used to. For one thing, there was something in the way, something warm, small, and solid. A Robin-shaped warm, small, and solid, come to think of it. For another thing… okay, no, the Robin-shaped warm, small, and solid was really the only thing between Conner and the stupid alarm clock bidding him to “rise and shine.”

Conner had no wish to shift and wake Robin. He also had no wish to disentangle himself from the warmth radiating off the Robin.

Then again, maybe disentangling himself was a good idea. Conner really couldn’t imagine anyone wanting to wake up with some near-stranger’s arm around their waist. Or with their nose in the same near-stranger’s sternum.

And the alarm was getting louder.

And louder.

Finally, Conner sighed and extricated himself from Robin. Sort of. He noticed that Robin’s arms had migrated to Conner’s waist, holding loosely as he gave those just-barely-snore sounds and the discontented little grumble that preceded actual waking noises. Conner reached over and managed to get the snooze button without actively crushing Robin. Thankfully. But the movements had also woken Robin, who rolled onto his back, releasing Conner.

Now Conner was practically hovering above Robin, and it was definitely a tad more awkward.

Conner shifted back over to his own side of the bed (it was all “his side of the bed,” though, being his bed and all) and sat up. Robin shot up a moment later, hair in the most hilarious disarray that Conner had ever seen.

Robin rubbed his eyes and Conner slid out of the bed. Off the bed? What was the term for leaving a bed that you were never under the covers of? Was there supposed to be a specific term? Was Conner just distracting himself from the waiting awkwardness that was sure to hit after Tim finally woke up and saw where he was?

To the last question: Probably yes.

Robin blinked his eyes blearily, rubbing at them with his fists. Conner stepped over to his dresser, but kept half an eye on the sleepy Robin.

Sharing beds was for romantic entanglements and best friends. Clearly, Conner and Robin shared neither, so the awkwardness in question was more of a promise than a possibility. And when Robin blinked the sleep out of his blue eyes, then…

Shit.

Batman was going to be on the warpath, wasn’t he?

“Uh,” Conner said, eloquent as ever.

Robin blinked over at him, covering a yawn with his fist.

Conner motioned towards his own face. “Your, uh… you.”

Robin blinked at him a few times and leaned back on his hands. One hand came in contact with the problem, or the cause of it. He turned to look at the object and tilted his head. Sunglasses. The ridiculous red ones that Conner had lent him. Given him? Given him. Conner decided that they were Robin’s glasses, now. But they were on the bed, instead of Robin’s face.

Robin’s eyes widened minutely, and he looked back at Conner. “Uh, don’t tell,” he said.

Conner and Robin looked at each other for a long moment. Robin looked like he was almost holding his breath. Clearly, he too was thinking about the warpath that Batman would no doubt go on, if he found out about the slip in obedience, accidental or no.

Then Conner chuckled, a smile breaking into his expression without preamble. “Yeah, okay,” he said. “I won’t.” He turned to his dresser and picked out clothing that was… okay, really, it was almost exactly what he was already wearing. But what he wore, he wore because it was comfortable. Tee shirts and jeans or cargo pants were just so much easier than fenagling with other forms of clothing. And he didn’t need anything more colourful than what he already had, thanks.

“Thanks,” Robin echoed the tail end of Conner’s thoughts. He sighed and picked up the sunglasses to put on. “There’s training with BC today, right?”

“Yeah, I have to be there in…” Conner glanced at his clock. 6:36. “Twenty-four minutes.” That was time for something to eat. Which was kind of unusual, for Conner. He could do a lot of things, but wake up and get ready by 7:00am, for training sessions? He generally found himself skipping something (breakfast) in order to make it on time. The only reason he even found time for breakfast before school, back in Smallville, was because Ma Kent insisted on him being down for breakfast before he had to go.

Not even preprogrammed clones could be perfect, right?

“I could go, too,” Robin mused, yawning again. He probably wasn’t mandated for any of the day’s sessions. But he was at the Mountain. It was training session, socialize, go home, or do nothing at all. That made training sessions look tempting, probably.

Robin slid to the edge of the bed and looked himself over with a frown. “Changing sounds like a pain, though,” he muttered. It was probably to himself, but superhearing didn’t lend itself to private mutterings, really.

“Not like anyone’s asking you to,” Conner suggested.

“I’m… thinking I don’t want to wear short shorts and your tee shirt to training,” Robin said slowly. “I kind of have an image to keep up and this is just. Too…” He shrugged.

“Right, you’re all business,” Conner said, almost teasing. “Can’t look casual, let alone _that_ casual.”

Robin rolled his eyes and adjusted the sunglasses. “I’ll see you around,” he said, standing.

“I could put something in the toaster for you?” Conner said. “I mean. If you were going to head down to eat something before training, anyway.” He stood there, in front of his partially open dresser, arms filled with his clothes for the day, and just kind of… hovered awkwardly. And literally.

(Tim decided against mentioning it or asking about it – but he was pretty sure it had been stated that Conner could _not_ fly? Right?)

“Uh, sure,” Tim said, inching toward the door. “See you down there, I guess.”

Conner nodded.

\--

Because Tim had _definitely_ forgotten his meds the previous night – thanks to movie night and spontaneous sleepover – his first task, after scurrying to his room, was to pull his medications from his locked desk drawer and take them in the appropriate doses. Anxiety, depression, ibuprofen for onset of a headache, a caffeine tablet because he had no self preservation, and contemplation of the ADHD medication.

He passed over it, after a few seconds’ thought. If no one else, Conner would probably notice the difference between ADHD Tim and Zombie Tim, even if Zombie Tim had more focus and could get things done just that much faster and more efficiently. Who cared if the price was a piece of his personality and most of his usual energy, right?

Conner was, apparently, good at noticing things.

And would probably care. Or ask. Or something equally embarrassing to deal with. It was easier to just bypass the whole thing.

After the medications were taken care of, Tim ignored any side-effects of forgetting the medication for between one and two days and set about going through all the clothing he had from Dick’s younger Robin days. Jeans, okay. He could deal with those. Jeans were infinitely better than the tiny green exercise shorts, that only seemed tinier, the longer he wore them for.

Tim took an agonizingly long minute and a half to decide if he would actually go around the Mountain in his civvies, or if he’d put in the effort of slipping into a Robin suit. Agonizing. He had works so damn hard on always being and looing professional. An official Robin. Not just a replacement.

Not just a replacement.

Jason deserved better than just some replacement. He deserved the absolute best to carry on the legacy.

But even Jason had had casual days, right?

Tim sighed through his nose, extricated himself from the offendingly small shorts and threw on the pants. Before he could change his mind, he escaped his room – and his painfully rusty decision making skills – and headed for the bathroom with toothbrush in hand. Teeth scrubbed, face washed, hair forgotten, Tim escaped back to his room.

Where he remembered his hair.

How someone could go about a perfectly normal daily routine, that almost never varied, and still forget something as simple as brushing their hair was beyond Tim. But he’d managed worse, and he said he’d meet Conner in the kitchen. Suddenly, that promise (was it even really a promise?) seemed a hell of a lot more important than digging out his hair gel and scurrying back to the bathroom to make sure his hair wasn’t fluffy or bedheaded. Or both.

It was probably both, but Tim just ran his fingers through his hair (damaged by his overuse of gel, but still soft, somehow), and scurried back out of his room. Though not without putting a pair of Dick’s old sneakers on. Old and obscenely comfortable.

Self-consciousness followed half a step behind him, echoing in his footsteps. He was painfully aware of the ridiculous sunglasses and Conner’s tee shirt following him out of his room, and his uncombed hair, his maskless face, his lack of absolute and strict presentation, his lack of formality.

But, aside from the self-consciousness, it felt amazing to have the bulk of the Robin suit off his shoulders, literally. The bulletproofing of… everything, and the ever-prepared nature of the utility belt made the suit a bit more weighty than it probably looked. And durable to an extreme that Tim sometimes wondered about. Privately.

Did Jason’s suit have that much “durable” and “preparedness” in it? Or was the “durable” and “preparedness” a side effect of… losing Jason? Just for example.

Tim had seen footage of some of Nightwing’s earliest antics with the Team, and he’d noticed the places in which seams most often tended to tear, and where blows would hurt Nightwing – then Rob – more than others. Clearly, taking into account the reinforced seams of Tim’s current Robin suit, the Robin suit had gone through at least a few adjustments. And was probably heavier, in the present, than it had been when Nightwing was wearing it. Or rather, its predecessor.

“Hey,” Conner greeted, when Tim rounded the corner, out of the hall and into the living and kitchen area.

The rec room sat beyond, some Team members watching stupid early-morning shows raptly, as if in denial of the upcoming training. The newest Team members were especially in denial, Tim found. Canary drove the Team hard, and for their benefit (of course). The newer the Team member, the more likely they were to be complaining of how difficult Canary could be, and how hard the training was. And, also, the more likely that that Team member was going to be watching Saturday morning cartoons with the same religious fervor that a Superman fanatic would watch the Metropolis skies.

“Hi,” Tim returned, pushing the glasses up his nose a bit further. He met Conner’s eyes only long enough to see that Conner was smiling, and maybe amused, then dropped them as he hopped onto one of the stools. “Sorry,” he said, motioning to the tee shirt.

“No, it’s fine,” Conner said, pushing a plain bagel over to Tim, already buttered and cream cheesed to what had to be practiced portions.

Conner used to bake with M’Gann, Tim recalled. Did that translate into condiment spreading? On a scale of one to ten, how ridiculous was that question?

Probably an eleven.

“Thanks,” Tim said, glancing over again.

“We match,” Conner offered with a grin. He seated himself on the stool next to Tim and motioned toward his own shirt. And, sure, they matched. Conner really only owned three kinds of shirts. Short sleeved, three-quarter sleeved, and full sleeved. But they all had the same exact design, as far as Tim could tell. Except some of the Superman shirts Conner had been given over the years, and only wore if he’d been putting off laundry day until the last possible minute.

“Yeah,” Tim snorted. “Sorry—” and ‘it’s fine’ echoed from Conner, again. “—I’ll make sure you get it back after it goes through the wash,” Tim pressed on, through his self-conscious embarrassment. He took a bite of the bagel before he could think of anything else to say, and to avoid looking back at Conner and seeing more of that amusement that felt vaguely condescending. Kind of. Not that he thought Conner was trying to be condescending. If anything, Tim was projecting his self-consciousness and interpreting everything else with confirmation bias in mind.

He was self-conscious, ergo he had to have a reason to be self-conscious, ergo Conner was being condescending with his amusement. Or something like that.

“No, it’s fine. I have enough to spare. I mean. If you want to, fine, but you don’t _have_ to,” Conner said. And some awkwardness – self-consciousness? – definitely snuck into the end of his statement. He shrugged, which Tim caught out of the corner of his eye, and then took a bite of his own bagel.

“Okay,” Tim said, to spare them both.

The clock in the kitchen (one of three, if you counted the ones on the oven and the microwave) read 6:53am. Seven minutes until training. Tim gnawed at his bagel, almost content, until a wave of air and energy whumped into him. Was whumped even a proper verb to use, there? It was kind of the sound of the air rushing at his earhole. Which wasn’t an amazing word to use, either, actually.

Tim turned warily to face the source of the whump of air. Of course it was a speedster, and Tim already knew that Wally wasn’t really around as much, anymore, and neither the elder nor the younger Flashes were on mentor or Team Mom duty, that day. So it was Bart. Of course it was Bart.

Tim raised an eyebrow and waited for the smiling speedster to speak first.

“Dude, nice glasses!” Bart said. He was grinning, but that wasn’t abnormal in the least. Bart was usually grinning, smiling, acting happy. Emphasis on the acting. Tim knew the difference between an actual smile and the kind you stuck on your face so that no one asked questions. He saw both kinds on Dick and in the mirror. Today, though, it looked like Bart wasn’t just acting.

“Thanks,” Tim offered.

“Not to be rude or anything, though,” Bart ploughed on, talking just a bit too fast and running his words together just a bit too much. Wasn’t that his status quo, though? “But who are you? I don’t think I’ve seen you around or nothing before, and I usually pride myself on my Allen memory, you know?”

“Uh,” Tim frowned a little.

“Was that rude? That might have been rude. Jaime, was that rude?” he turned to talk over his shoulder, as if Jaime had followed him over from the rec room. Jaime hadn’t, and that seemed to surprise Bart for a moment. “Huh.” He turned back to Tim. “You new to the Team or something? Am I spoiling introductions?”

“Uh, no…” Tim tried.

“Dude, that’s Supey’s shirt,” Bart zipped to Tim’s other side, whumping Tim’s other ear with air.

Tim made a face and turned to face Bart again. It looked like Jaime was getting up from the couch and heading over, probably to reign in Bart. Not many people seemed to be able to reign the youngest speedster in. Jaime’s gift was clearly meant to be shared.

“Are you his boyfriend? Are you a guest? Who are you? Oh my god, mystery. So crash!” Bart waved his hands around, whacking Conner once.

“He’s not my boyfriend,” Conner said, his tone a lot gruffer and grumpier than it had been a moment ago. “Bart, go away. It’s just Robin.”

“What! But, but, but,” Bart zipped from one side of Tim to the other, then back again. It was a bit dizzying, and probably didn’t do anything for Tim’s hair. “He never looks like this! Look at the hair, the face, the clothes, the stance, the _bagel_ ,” yes, because the bagel was the strangest part.

Tim shook his head a bit.

“Is he sick?” Bart turned back to Conner, as if Tim wasn’t able to answer the questions for himself.

“I’m fine, Bart,” Tim said, his tone forceful. “I wasn’t even supposed to be here today.” He was supposed to be hoofing it downtown to go shopping with Steph, as far as he could recall. He’d have to text her and apologize, later. Unless he got out of there by noonish? He could make it if he was in Gotham before one in the afternoon. Probably.

“Yeah but, dude, you’re in civvies. And where’d you get the crash glasses? Is that really Supey’s shirt? Don’t you usually go around suited up and stuff, all professional and Batty and ready to take on the next big world threat? Are you dying and did I already ask that question?” It was like Bart went around stealing from everyone else’s stocks of questions and then spat them all out at once. Tim could barely follow along, at the speed Bart fired his questions.

Jaime put a hand on Bart’s shoulder, which seemed to gravitate Bart’s attention away from Tim and onto Jaime’s semi-pained expression. “Slow down a bit, ese,” Jaime muttered.

“Right. Yeah. Yup. Slowing down.”

No, he wasn’t. But the thought was nice.

“I’m fine, and I’m not dying,” Tim said evenly. “I just figured I’d… relax?” he shrugged, halfheartedly. The clock read 6:58, and that was cutting it a bit close for training. He turned and nudged Conner, nodding at the clock.

Conner was out of his seat before Bart had another question out, which was a feat in and of itself. “We gotta go. You guys in the first training session? It’s starting soon.” He motioned to the clock as well, and absently guided Tim out of the seat, to the tune of Tim grumbling and grabbing for what was left of his bagel.

“You never relax, though! I think there’s a law against Bats relaxing! Batlaxing?” Bart paused when Jaime sighed, then found himself steered in the direction of the training room, “Oh, wait, yeah, we have training, too, today. Heh, musta forgot.”

Unsurprising. Tim rolled his eyes behind his glasses.

“C’mon, hermano,” Jaime said, sighing. “Stop bugging Robin.” Still, he glanced over his shoulder and looked almost concernedly at Tim, which was uncomfortable to the nth degree. Jaime was usually lost in his own little world, arguing with the scarab. Or else being hyper attentive of his surroundings. It was weird to be the focus of Jaime’s attention.

“Yeah, yeah, okay,” Bart agreed. Maybe a bit too fast. But then, everything about Bart was “a bit too fast,” in general.

\--

Nightwing was at the training session, and he was definitely surprised to see Tim there. Though, whether he was more surprised at Tim’s presence or Tim’s appearance was up for debate.

“Little Bird!” he greeted, slinging an arm around his shoulders. “Nice to see you up and at ‘em! Sleep well?”

Tim raised an eyebrow until Nightwing sighed and released him. It didn’t escape Tim’s notice that Nightwing turned his next smile to Conner, who stood on Tim’s other side.

If Superman was “Big Blue,” Superboy was “Little Blue,” in spite of the lack of blue in his usual outfit. Which was probably why Nightwing greeted him as such. And wasn’t it ironic for him to greet Conner as “Little” when Conner was almost half a foot taller than Nightwing? “Hey, Little Blue. Up for another painstaking round of ‘you can take down villains twice your size and four times your strength if you do this impossible set of self-defense moves’?”

Conner grunted. Tim glanced between Nightwing and Conner once, then shoved his hands in his pockets (the jeans were a bit too large, which meant they were Nightwing hand-me-downs, like everything else) and turned his attention to Black Canary and her introduction to the class. It wasn’t a very big class, objectively speaking, but it would still take some doing to cycle every single one of them through the training regimen on the digital mat. Which meant that guests and unexpected attendees (like Tim) probably wouldn’t end up on the mat.

But then Tim caught Canary’s eye and she gave a smile that set off all kinds of warning bells in his head. The same kinds of warning bells that Steph’s thinking face usually set off. The same kinds of warning bells that Dick saying “so Wally and I were thinking…” usually set off. The same kinds of warning bells that M’Gann noticing his anxiety set off.

“Robin,” Canary greeted.

Every. Fricking. Eye. Turned to Tim. Because that was where BC was looking when she said his name. Some of them seemed to think it would be a different Robin, Dick or Jason, and you could tell in the way they’d turn a little too quick, shoulders a bit too tense, and then slouch over a bit, sighing.

Tim adjusted the sunglasses awkwardly, shrugging in response. Which probably wasn’t the correct (or expected) response. But it was what it was.

“Why don’t you and Conner come up to the mat. Visual examples may help some of our newer members understand what I’m trying to say,” Canary said.

Tim’s first thought was along the lines of _won’t my sunglasses fall off?_ , but he still trailed up to the mat behind Conner. Noiseless and relatively unassuming. But suddenly incredibly embarrassed to be wearing a borrowed shirt. Or civvies. Or anything short of full gear and safely secured mask.

Black Canary ruffled his hair, briefly, and it was probably supposed to be comforting. Tim found it more along the lines of humiliating. “As you all know, this is Robin, Batman’s protégé, and this is Superboy, Superman’s protégé and son.”

A chorus of ridiculous “hi Robin, hi Superboy” echoed through the group. It sounded like public school. Or private school. Or a cult of teenagers and young adults. Yikes.

Tim sighed, running a hand through his hair.

“In previous training sessions,” BC pressed on, “Superboy has been subject to lessons regarding how his strength can be undermined through extremely simple methods, including leverage and gravity. Your abilities _can_ and _will_ be used against you, at some point, and it’s best to learn that here, in a safe environment, rather than in the field.”

Black Canary walked – paced? stalked. – in front of Tim and Conner, making a painstaking effort to meet the eyes of every one of her current students. “The most adept at using your abilities against you, however, are not out in the field. Two of them are in this room,” she motioned toward Robin, “And they’re trained by the best. People without powers, super or alien, tend to be the best at thinking on their feet. They don’t get complacent, they don’t rush ahead, and they don’t fall for simple tricks. They can’t afford to.”

Tim sighed and leaned to one side, putting his weight on his left foot and scratching the side of his nose. Now he felt uncomfortable, self-conscious, _and_ embarrassed. He didn’t do “praise” well, even when it was B or Nightwing. Let alone Black Canary touting the Bat protégés’ adeptness. He didn’t feel adept, at the moment. He felt scruffy and out of his element. Dept. He felt dept.

Okay, no. He couldn’t. Maybe Dick was comfortable with killing the English language twelve ways to Sunday, but Tim was just.

No.

Adept. Inept. No need to butcher anything. Least of all the English language.

“On the other side of the coin is working with abilities which oppose your own in some way. Once again, someone without your abilities will probably have a different take on them,” Black Canary said. “In some ways, the two you see before you would probably make the best team out of any other combination. Part of that is, of course, Batman’s training. Another part, however, is going to be how Robin sees Superboy’s ability set, and what Robin can do with it, how he can use Superboy’s abilities to his advantage.

“For now, let’s focus on the former, taking down an opponent bigger and stronger than you. In this case, we have a young Robin,” without his utility belt, no less, “and Superboy, whose abilities include superstrength. Not that he isn’t already taller and broader than our favourite Robin.”

Yeah, no. Tim was pretty sure he wasn’t anyone’s favourite Robin. At least, not anyone on the Team.

Conner clapped him on the shoulder, then departed to one corner of the mat. Tim was halfway to raising his hand to mention the lack of his utility belt, and all the toold held within, but stopped himself. He was relatively sure that he could hold his own, with or without the utility belt. And these were once Nightwing’s jeans, so Tim felt that they would comfortably accommodate him and his erratic movements and acrobatics. Precisely erratic, that is. There was nothing unplanned about Tim’s moves, in general, and he had a cold precision that Nightwing had never adopted.

Nightwing’s looser movements were more fluid and natural, though. Tim lacked the fluidity that his predecessor had in spades. Whatever “had in spades” meant.

“Robin, if possible, I’d like you to take down Superboy when he rushes you. And Superboy, I know we’ve trained against falling for pitfalls like the simple rush and the obvious counters, but this is an example, so if you wouldn’t mind…?” Black Canary smiled at her two students. Former students? Was Tim ever really her student.

“You want me to take a fall,” Conner surmised, a bit flatly. It seemed as though training – much like missions – took something out of Conner’s personality. It was as if he repressed a sense of self in order to appear more businesslike.

And that was probably what made people think he wasn’t all that smart, even though his knowledge banks probably exceeded the capacity and fill of everyone else’s in the room. Almost everyone. Tim didn’t think it was too farfetched that he had a bit more stored away, though it was boring mission-related crap, clues, hints, and a frankly impressive bank of riddles and their answers (for obvious reasons).

“Not necessarily. I just don’t want you to counter-strategize, this session,” Canary said, still smiling kindly.

Tim absently cracked his knuckles, the movements methodical, as he looked Conner up and down. Conner was definitely in his element, even down to the clothes he was wearing. Tim was so outside his element that he’d probably need a cab to get back to it. But he was Robin. Batman’s partner and protégé. He could take Superboy, with or without his utility belt. Black Canary did it, before – Tim had seen the archival footage.

Besides, Nightwing was watching. Tim couldn’t very well _lose_ when Nightwing was watching the match. That would be beyond embarrassing.

Black Canary called the start of the match and where some would have expected a showy first move (a holdover from Nightwing’s Robin days), but Tim just retreated a few steps and sized Conner up. He couldn’t use any of his usual tools or weapons, but he could use his brain.

Conner gave the match a beat, then rushed Tim with a shout. The shout was normal, expected even, and Tim partly thought that the shout was more of a fulfilled expectation than an actual necessity or drive. Conner didn’t always shout his way into battle, after all. But he certainly did when he wanted to draw attention.

Tim bent his knees a bit and, when Conner closed in, launched himself in the air. He moved forward, into a flip, and used Conner’s shoulder to springboard himself behind Conner. As he landed behind Conner, he swung a sneakered foot behind himself and in front of Conner’s ankle. Gravity did its work and Conner stumbled, but he didn’t fall. Tim frowned, pushing his sunglasses up his nose again. He employed an evasive trio of backward handsprings away from Conner – mostly for show, and to draw attention the same way Conner’s “battlecry” drew attention – and landed with knees a bit bent, ready to spring again. He checked his sunglasses again and tilted his head in calculation.

\--

Conner turned around, after regaining his balance, and pursed his lips. The matches in the training room could last ages. But not when Robins or Black Canaries were involved. They tended to end matches as quickly and efficiently as possible.

Then again, Robin was in civvies. No tools, casual sneakers, sunglasses that were constantly ready to fly off his face, and any number of mild handicaps that factored into the slow match. Well, no, not slow. But slower than Conner would have expected.

Then again (again), Conner wasn’t entirely sure he’d ever gone one on one with the third Robin. This Robin was more calculated than the previous ones, and slower didn’t mean worse or less adept, right? If anything, Robin was constantly sizing Conner up, and gauging his abilities. It felt a bit baring to be so closely and quietly scrutinized. But it gave a sense of having a worthy, equal opponent, which was almost funny, given Robin’s stature and weight. There had never been a lighter Robin.

No, wait.

Nightwing had been that weight. But Nightwing had been a lot younger when he was introduced to the Team. Younger, smaller, and infinitely more likely to disappear than this Robin.

Conner charged Robin, again, and was almost startled when Robin ran at him, in return, before Conner was halfway across the mat. Conner didn’t even see the sequence of movements that ended with him on the mat, but he got the distinct impression – from his jarred skull and ribs – that his size and weight had been used against him in tandem with the primal force of gravity. And a pair of thighs around his neck?

“Wha…?” Conner managed. But Robin had darted away again.

“Good,” Black Canary said. “Robin’s wary retreat is a wise move, as any fall can’t be guaranteed to take down a larger, stronger opponent. Especially one with superstrength. Or, for example, the ability to break the sound barrier in their sneakers. And heal after injuries that land most people in hospitals.

Speedsters generally recovered more quickly, but Conner wasn’t about to comment. He liked to keep his comments sparse and, usually, to the point.

It was something of a wonder that he had any friends.

Conner got to his feet and took a moment to size up his opponent, for the first time in the match. He wasn’t supposed to be strategizing too much – it defeated the purpose of the lesson, a bit – but he didn’t like the idea of ending up on his face because Robin did another one of his weird ninja moves wherein centrifugal force, gravity, and Conner’s own weight brought Conner to the mat.

Conner also chanced a glance at Black Canary. Maybe they could be done with the event. Her point seemed to be made and… there it was, the little nod in Robin’s direction that meant Conner should try again.

Yeah, okay.

Conner sighed and charged again. Because what else did you do to show an example of brute strength against intellect? This time, though, he didn’t give that yell that some of the Team made fun of, sometimes. Mostly, he was prepping to meet the ground with his face, this time. He’d already stumbled once and landed on his back. Why not make it a set?

Robin did what was essentially a slower version of the limbo Bart did under Robin’s bo staff, when they trained together (and, allegedly, when Bart had first shown up), but did so under Conner’s arm. Next came the sneaker hooked in front of Conner’s ankle, this time timed to when Conner was already leaning forward into the next step, foot just lifted off the ground. He was already off balance from missing Robin with his lunge, but now he was about to faceplant. Just as he’d expected.

Well, no, not “just” as he’d expected. He’d expected to faceplant. He hadn’t particularly expected to faceplant after someone played limbo under his arm, Robin or no. And he wasn’t entirely sure that physics agreed with the idea of going from leaning that far backwards to spinning around to take out an ankle in that short a time.

Black Canary nodded, off to the side, which Conner first saw as a bit of a blur. He wasn’t sure if it was possible for Kryptonians (or half-Kryptonians) to get concussions, but if it was, he probably had a reason to be worried. “As you can see, Robin’s focus was using Superboy’s size and bulk against him. If Robin had depended entirely on himself – without the tools of his trade – it would be a wonder if he came out of the match the victor, much less entirely unharmed.”

Robin straightened and pushed his glasses up his nose, again, then turned to offer Conner a hand, which Conner accepted. It wasn’t like he was hurt. His pride knew better than to be hurt when someone associated with _Batman_ beat him.

Conner and Robin walked over to the side of the training mat while Canary decided to be funny and pick Bumblebee and Mal, next. Funny in that Karen shrank down to size and was officially the smallest opponent on the mat, and Mal was close to being the tallest and bulkiest person in the room. Not laughably funny, though.

Okay. Well. Bart was laughing (to the tune of Jaime trying to tell him to stop being embarrassing). No one else was. Gar might’ve, if he were present, but – as usual – he was with M’Gann, even in terms of training session.

Conner didn’t see much of him.

“Good job, Little Bird,” Nightwing said. He bumped his shoulder against Robin’s and smiled. Tim frowned a little in return.

The smile-versus-stare continued for a moment, until Nightwing’s smile widened a bit and Robin glanced away.

“Nice shirt,” Nightwing said.

Conner rolled his eyes. Nightwing turned to him, looking slightly taken aback. Conner raised his eyebrow coolly. “Are you just trying to be embarrassing?” he asked, “Is that what siblings do?” It would be good to know, when a certain young Super got introduced to what was technically his half-brother. Genetically speaking.

“I don’t know what you mean,” Nightwing returned to the smile.

Conner rolled his eyes a bit more emphatically, but didn’t pursue the topic.

\--

Tim thanked Conner again, a bit vaguely. He didn’t know how to “play it cool” and thank him individually thank Conner for the things he did. The most important, and hardest to word in thanks, was definitely the help Conner had lent when Tim had experienced the post-mission, post-adrenaline difficulty breath, dehydration, and heat exhaustion.

And the paranoia and anxiety. Maybe. He still wasn’t sure if he’d forgotten his medication. But it all ended okay, so… it was what it was.

“Don’t mention it,” Conner said, back to being a man of few words.

The whole exchange took place under Nightwing’s smiling eyes, while he waited to escort his little brother back to Gotham, and debrief him. But not on the mission. It was an unspoken and clearly understood fact that Nightwing’s interest was in Tim’s social interactions. Dick worried for his little brother, and didn’t like how Tim secluded himself from the Team. The boy needed more friends.

“See you around, Conner. Enjoy the beach!” Nightwing said.

And Conner might have startled a bit at being directly addressed. Nightwing had been distancing himself meticulously from interpersonal Team relationships. A little like Tim seemed to do, but infinitely more intentionally, and probably in an effort to streamline his leadership capabilities. Supposedly, you couldn’t be a good leader if you were emotionally involved. Emotional involvement lead to a “one over all” mentality, when someone emotionally important to a leader was in trouble.

Supposedly.

Tim wasn’t above thinking that Dick was just trying to keep people at arm’s length because it had _hurt_ too much when Jason died. On one hand, he probably didn’t want to experience that again. On the other hand, he probably didn’t want anyone to know just how much he was still suffering over an event he had ultimately no control over, but still blamed himself for.

“See you,” Conner returned, begrudgingly and after a bit too long of a pause. “I guess.”

Nightwing laughed again (there was something distinctly different between Nightwing’s laugh and Dick’s laugh, and Richard Grayson’s public laugh). “Come on, you get the beach. We get stuffy, old, smog-laden Gotham. Where it’s more likely to rain than give a proper sunny day.”

Which didn’t stop the place from getting muggy as all hell, causing Tim all kinds of problems that air conditioners could keep at bay for only as long as he was indoors.

“Yeah, well. Might get to see a bit of that Gotham charm for myself this week,” Conner hazarded. “Clark’s been talking about taking me as his plus one to a press event, there.”

“Ew,” Nightwing snorted. “Good luck.”

“Mm.”

Silence fell, and Tim was happy to leave it that way, but he couldn’t figure out how to extricate himself from the social situation. The zeta tubes and Gotham were calling him, and he had things he needed to wrap up before patrol, that night. Like going to the mall with Steph (late, it was 2:30pm, already), making it up to Steph, and then checking on his father’s business trip itinerary. If Mr. Drake came home late, there was a chance Tim would get caught sneaking in or out. If not simply being caught not asleep, not in his room, and nowhere in the vicinity of the upper end house that felt more like a magazine advertisement than a home.

So, yeah. Things to do.

“Bye, Robin,” Conner said. Tim sighed in relief. That was the cue to leave, right?

“Bye,” Tim responded. He put a hand on Nightwing’s elbow for a moment, then turned to head for the zeta tubes, relatively comfortable knowing that Nightwing would follow behind him. He’d probably roll his eyes fondly and make a snarky comment, first. But he’d follow.

On the other side of the zeta beam, stepping out of the decrepit telephone booth in what wasn’t an awesome part of Gotham, Dick cleared his throat. And it definitely wasn’t the Nightwing voice or mannerisms that was asking for Tim’s attention. “So,” he said.

Tim sighed and shoved his hands in his pockets. He started walking out of the alleyway. Dick took him by the shoulder, though. “Hey, now,” he laughed. “I can’t just follow you onto the sidewalk.” He motioned to himself, and the Nightwing outfit.

“You should head to Blüdhaven, right?” Tim asked.

“I’ll be fine. I was hoping to have a chat,” Dick said.

“You left me behind, last night,” Tim crossed his arms and leaned away from Dick.

“You were asleep,” Dick shrugged. “I know you, Timmy. You don’t sleep enough, get enough downtime, eat enough, or take care of yourself enough. I wasn’t about to break the first restful sleep you’ve probably had in the last week.”

Tim just continued frowning.

“So,” Dick said again, “Conner.”

“What about him?” Tim didn’t like just how defensive it came out, but it was a few seconds too late to change that.

“Nothing, I’m just glad you’re finally making friends on the Team,” Dick’s smile softened. Whatever teasing or verbal postulating he had actually been planning, he dropped. “I mean, friends that aren’t me and Babs. Family is great and all, but part of the point of the Team is to socialize. You can’t be a cohesive unit if you don’t socialize.”

Tim made a face. He didn’t argue, but he wanted to.

“I know,” Dick said, in response to the unspoken words. “I know they’re still sore from losing Jason. Hurting. I know you feel like a replacement or odd man out. But, it gets better.” Just not for Aqualad or Dick, apparently. Aqualad and his diving off the deep end (and, yeah, it was an act, but that didn’t mean it didn’t reflect on Kaldur that he accepted the mission parameters as proposed by Dick), Dick and his purposeful distancing.

“I’m glad you’re making friends,” Dick repeated, softer.

Tim sighed, dropping his defensively crossed arms and softening his posture. “Thanks,” he said.

**Author's Note:**

> I have an idea for what happens next. Who knows, maybe I'll even manage something more plot-oriented. Or chaptered.
> 
> For me, anything longer than 10 - 15k should probably be chaptered. As much as I like the occasional 20k - 30k one shot, I just... find it easier to read something long(er) if it's segmented into chapters.


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